


As the Iceberg Loves the Ship

by Superfast_Jellybitch



Series: The one where Gabriel pines [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Happy Ending, Fluff and Angst, Multi, Mutual Pining, One-Sided Attraction, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-11
Updated: 2019-07-22
Packaged: 2020-06-09 22:17:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,458
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19485130
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Superfast_Jellybitch/pseuds/Superfast_Jellybitch
Summary: "I will love you if I never see you again, and I will love you if I see you every Tuesday."- Lemony Snicket





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So basically, I was frustrated that the majority of Gabriel/Aziraphale fics are just smut. Not that I dislike smut, mind you, it's just that there's so much _more_ than that. So I did what I always do when I feel there's a lack of content and took matters into my own hands. Enjoy. Or don't, I'm not the boss of you.
> 
> Sidenote: This is vaguely "A Series of Unfortunate Events"/"The Beatrice Letters" flavored for 2 reasons. Firstly because the tragic pining is just fantastic, and secondly because I thought Jon Hamm and Patrick Warburton were like...the same person until I was 12, and for some reason the association has lingered.

Throughout history, almost any pair of lovers can tell you the exact moment they'd fallen in love. When he saw her from across the ballroom, or when she comforted him through the loss of a friend. The first time he'd taken him to the park, or when she saw her smile in the sunlight first thing in the morning. Gabriel could not tell you when he'd began loving Aziraphale, only that it was a very, very long time ago. Perhaps even since his creation. It was a part of him just as surely as his wings, and as instinctual to him as breathing is to earthly creatures.

It had been easy, before the garden. When he could simply reach for him and know he'd be there. When he could run his fingers through the soft feathers of his wings under the pretense of grooming. When he'd relish every embrace the smaller angel would pull him into, every gentle smile that was just for him. But the Almighty had other plans for Aziraphale, and Gabriel didn't dare question the plans of the Almighty. Not after he'd seen what could happen if one did. He'd given Aziraphale's shoulder a gentle squeeze before he'd left, and the touch wasn't enough, but he held onto the memory like a treasure for all the years it took for them to meet again.

It had been even easier before the war. Before he was plunged into perpetual fear of an accidental misstep- or worse, of Aziraphale, or Michael, or Uriel, or even Sandalphon making an accidental misstep. Before he'd seen the horrors that war could bring, seeing friends' wings burn and bodies pile up, and feeling horrible every time he felt that gasp of relief that whispered _thank God it's not him_. Gabriel couldn't afford to let that happen to anyone again. He just couldn't.

Centuries passed between them, and all the while, Gabriel ached. Oh, he didn't let anyone see, mind you. He kept up his smile, and his unwavering enthusiasm, and his lust for life, but on the inside he ached for Aziraphale. It took every ounce of self control he had to not fall on his knees and beg the Principality to stay just a little longer every time he delivered his reports to heaven. But Gabriel learned to manage the ache, learned to control his emotions, learned to be the perfect supervisor. It was the least he could do to make managing the distance easier. Gradually, the ache became a familiar, bearable one. One he could begin to tune out to focus on other, more pressing issues. However, he couldn't help it flaring up into full force every time they were in the same room.

When he'd been given the Mary assignment, he'd been nothing short of elated. Not only would he be delivering joyous news to the humans of the arrival of their messiah, but he'd be on _Earth_. They'd be on the same plane of existence again, right within arm's reach. He'd stayed on Earth far longer than he'd needed for that assignment, spending his time sitting in dark little restaurants he didn't quite understand, being drug hand in hand through gardens whose beauty rivaled that of Eden, seeing stars he'd hung in the sky himself in ways he'd never imagined. He didn't understand Earth, or humans, but Aziraphale loved it here, and Gabriel loved Aziraphale, and that was enough. Besides, there were things about Earth that were worth the trip. Fine linens nearly as soft as his Principality's feathers, in almost every color he could imagine, rich scents like frankincense or myrrh or that delightful aromatic floral concoction that Aziraphale liked to anoint himself with each day, the wonders of the sense of physical touch. He'd spent an absurd amount of time in the marketplace touching things just to feel them. Aziraphale had to practically drag him from each stall to prevent the vendors from getting angry with him for lingering so long without making a purchase. Even more exquisite than the feeling of fabrics beneath his fingertips were the times when late at night in the dim glow of firelight, Aziraphale would rest his head on Gabriel's lap and allow him to run his fingers through his hair, which had somehow been even softer than his wings. Gabriel had left before the crucifixion, but just barely. He couldn't stand to be there to see the plan he'd set in motion come to its bloody conclusion. After all, if he had to _watch_ it happen, he might start to wonder _why_ , and he couldn't afford that. Like the fool he is, he'd nearly begged Aziraphale to come back with him- to come _home_ , but Aziraphale sagely reminded him that he had a very important job to do on Earth, and a part of that was to make sure that _someone_ was there with the Almighty's son as he died. No one should have to die alone.

Heaven had seemed...emptier after that. Being on Earth like that with Aziraphale had been like...like seeing in color for the first time. The ache was back with a vengeance, and he sought desperately to soothe it. First it had been the clothes. He'd always liked the clothes, and it was fun to see how they changed over the years. From soft garments that draped across the body, to brocades and silks and oh so many layers, to starched collars, it was a fabulous distraction. Then, it was the workplace. Amorphic was growing tiring. Formless clouds turned to marble floors and clean lines, large windows that could not be opened nor shattered, office spaces complete with furniture. Unlike his clothing choices, Gabriel had made an effort to stray away from the extravagant in his decorating. He didn't feel like shaking the boat with all this...excess. What Gabriel insisted was "a necessity" and "keeping in touch with the surface" any rational human would call "vanity". Still, every distraction in the universe couldn't stop the Archangel from slipping away to the Earth Observation department every now and again, just to see what Aziraphale was up to in between reports.

Then, he'd received the best news of his entire career. Aziraphale was being called back to heaven, with a commendation for his diligent work on earth, no less, and _he'd_ get to deliver the news _personally_. He'd taken the stairs two at a time, having to be caught more than once by Sandalphon to avoid falling. The lesser angel didn't seem to share his enthusiasm in this journey, but then again, Sandalphon didn't _understand_ why this was so important. Gabriel had even made an appointment with his tailor. The sign was still being painted when they'd arrived at the bookshop- his Principality's latest endeavor to stave off boredom. The sight of it made his smile widen immensely. _"A.Z. Fell and Co."_. It was so quaint, so charming, so very _Aziraphale_. It was really a shame that it would be passed on to "Company" before "A.Z. Fell" got his chance to open it. He'd strode through the doors with barely restrained elation.

"I'm afraid the bookshop will not be open until Friday, good people. But we will be having a grand opening immediately after lunch-" Aziraphale had explained without turning to face them.

"We aren't here to buy books, Aziraphale." Gabriel had said, trying his best to remain professional when he's bursting at the seams with happiness.

Aziraphale....had not been enthused by Gabriel's news. In fact, he seemed near panic at the prospect of leaving Earth. Gabriel couldn't understand it. Earth was nice, yes. It was a fun place to visit, but no place for an angel. He'd been down here, _alone_ for nearly 6000 years. No other angelic company, just poor Aziraphale sheparding the poor, simple humans. Gabriel had had Michael, and Uriel, and Sandalphon, and any other non-earthbound angel he could possibly want to speak to and he _still_ felt like the loneliness would tear him asunder sometimes. He'd fought so hard to get this promotion for him- had sung his praises to every Virtue, Throne, and Seraphim who'd listen to him, had wished and hoped and even prayed for it- so why wasn't Aziraphale bursting with joy the way Gabriel was? It isn't until Aziraphale starts in on his descriptions of the demon known as Crowley that Gabriel begins to suspect. "Wily and cunning and brilliant..." he'd said with such reverence that it had cut through Gabriel like a knife, deflating all his joy.

"It almost sounds like you _like_ him." Gabriel interrupted, unable to disguise the disdain in his voice.

"I loathe him. And, despite myself, I respect a worthy opponent...Which he isn't because he's a demon, and I cannot respect a demon. Or like one." Aziraphale doubles down.

Relief instantly flooded him, replacing that foreign, cold, pained feeling that had taken root in him only a moment before. He was a fool to doubt Aziraphale. His Principality wouldn't _lie_ to him. Especially on a professional matter. He would never betray him, or the plan, or put himself in danger of falling. Gabriel's smile returns, brighter than ever.

"That's the attitude I like to hear! You'll be an asset back at Head Office, I can tell you that!" He said gleefully, slipping the medal over his head. He lets his hands linger there for only a moment before returning them to his sides. To be touched by Aziraphale or invited to touch him was one thing, but Gabriel could rarely find the courage to touch him unprompted.

The skip in his step had returned by the time he'd left for his tailor's appointment. How unfortunate it had been, then, for him to overhear a conversation between two demons that consisted wholly of relief at the loss of the Angel of the Eastern Gate. Evidently, Aziraphale was busier than Gabriel could have known. He knew what he had to do, but for once, his angelic duties brought him nothing but despair. He sank down onto the footstool in the dressing room and cried, the pain of thousands of years of _wanting_ , of _almosts_ and _if only's_ spilling down his face in salty streaks. He knew despite all his best efforts, he'd have to let Aziraphale stay. When he finally emerges from the shop in his brand new suit, his eyes are still puffy, and his demeanor is still sullen. All he wants now is to get this over with. Sandalphon, save for a slight, reassuring pat on the shoulder, pretends not to notice. Bless him.

"We need you here. Battling evil." Gabriel bit out, perhaps a little more tightly than he ought to.

"Carry on battling." Sandalphon adds with a playful punch to Aziraphale's shoulder. A clear attempt to lighten the mood that will not go unappreciated.

Gabriel wants to say something more- _needs_ to say something more- but finds he cannot think of the right words. The selfish "I love you"'s and "Come home to me"'s and "please"'s all die on his tongue. He doesn't even reach forward to squeeze Aziraphale's shoulder this time. He doesn't even think he can. Gabriel offers him a slight smile instead, fighting the tears that were threatening to form once more.

"Keep the medal."

Gabriel tries to distance himself after that. He doesn't talk about Aziraphale anymore. The visits to the Earth Observation department stop. Whenever he's sent planetside, he keeps his visits brief and his heart guarded. He simply cannot hope anymore. Not out loud. But he couldn't stop the yearning. That, it seemed, was permanent. Oh Gabriel could certainly pretend it was over and done with, and he'd finally devoted himself wholly to his work, but in his soul the ache never left. 80 years pass like this- in curt and professional denial- until Aziraphale asks him to lunch.

He'd only gone to the bookshop for a moment, as his new tailor had recently moved to Soho and he'd had an appointment. Just a little surprise check-in. Nothing more. Aziraphale had been properly surprised to see him, and Gabriel had been properly surprised to find the shop open. In the 80 years since its opening, it seemed Aziraphale had decided he wasn't too keen on actually _selling_ his books. He couldn't help but notice how the fashion of this century really _suited_ Aziraphale, even better than the frills and ruffles of the 18th century. The contrast of sharp lines and soft fabrics, the ties. He'd especially liked the waistcoat and even deigned to tell him so. Business finished, Gabriel went to leave, only to be stopped by a hand around his wrist. Aziraphale had looked at him with those blue green eyes, positively desperate, and Gabriel's heart ached. He didn't like "lunch", but he absolutely could not turn it down. Not when his Principality was looking at him like _that_. Besides, it had been so long since he'd allowed himself to hope for this. So he found himself seated opposite Aziraphale in an opulent restaurant, listening to him go on about everything from his favorite thing on the menu to the litany of customers he's had to deal with. Reassured in his affections and emboldened by the swell of emotion in him, Gabriel had reached across the table to hold his hand, smiling a little to himself when his Principality squeezed back affectionately, twining their fingers together the way he had in the gardens of Jerusalem all those years ago. This was to Gabriel like a cool drink of water in a burning desert, not that he'd had any experience in that department. He'd left Aziraphale at the stoop of his bookshop after a fair amount of window-shopping, which had turned to actual shopping when Aziraphale had spotted a pale blue silk scarf and purchased it for him immediately, insisting that it brought out the violet in his eyes. He had turned to leave when, to his shock, Aziraphale had stood on the tips of his toes, gripped Gabriel by the scarf he'd so gently wrapped around him moments before, and pressed those plush pink lips to his own. Gabriel froze. They'd never been this close before, never touched like this before, and he didn't know what to do. Before he could figure it out, Aziraphale was pulling away.

"What was that?" He'd asked, arms unmoving from where they'd found purchase around Aziraphale's waist.

"Oh, of course you wouldn't- I'm sorry Gabriel. It's uh. It's called a kiss. The humans do it when they like one another."

"Oh well in that case-"

Gabriel leans down and stiffly returns the favor. Aziraphale moves against him gently but insistantly, returning the awkward gesture as best he can. It's far from the best kiss in the world, but at least his eyes are closed this time. When they part, the only thing on his mind is how this is so much better than a gentle squeeze to the shoulder. He practically floated back to heaven. It felt like everything was finally falling into place for once, like maybe all his years of loving from afar might've actually amounted to something deeper. Something... _mutual_. He'd hummed little fragments of waltzes and operas he'd heard once or twice in passing for months, going about his business in Heaven with renewed vigor. After all, if Aziraphale had wanted to take him to lunch, to take his hand, to _kiss_ him this one time, surely there would be another. His visits to earth increased in frequency after the century turned, waiting however impatiently for the next lunch date. Or dinner. Or breakfast. Whatever meal Aziraphale fancied taking him along for, really. He was positively certain it would happen again, if he only gave it time. In the meantime, he'd taken up jogging. He'd had enough of twiddling his thumbs waiting on Aziraphale, and it gave him an excuse to wear things like cashmere and jersey. More than anything, though, it gave him an excuse to be on Earth. And then, before he knew it, Armageddon was 11 years away. 11 years, and then they'd win the war, and evil would be defeated for good, and he and Aziraphale would have all of eternity together. He'd been so excited when he'd found out that he nearly ran laps around the office.

Perhaps, in a way, they'd been sheltering him all this time- the others. His friends. Because from the slight tremor in Michael's hand as she'd laid the photographs in front of him, he could immediately tell that she'd known all along. Somehow, knowing that she'd hidden it from him made seeing the pictures hurt even more. Aziraphale, in all his pretty 17th century finery standing side by side with the demon Crowley, apparently enjoying a production at the globe. He always did enjoy the theatre, though Gabriel never could figure out why he'd enjoyed such vulgar productions as the ones William Shakespeare had written. They're smiling beatifically at one another, clearly enjoying each other's company more than the play. Aziraphale in St. James park, feeding the ducks shoulder to shoulder with Crowley. This one didn't look to be but a few decades before their lunch date. He was even wearing the same vest that Gabriel had complemented that day. And then there was the most recent one. Couldn't have been more than a few years old. Aziraphale, seated comfortably, companionably close to Crowley, the two of them chatting on a park bench like old friends. Or maybe more than that. Gabriel closes his eyes for a moment, simply because he cannot stand to look any longer. The horrible, sinking, cold feeling is back, and it _hurts_. Hurts worse than any physical pain he's ever felt. When he reopens them, it's to look Michael in the eye with an unreadable stare. There are many paths he can choose with this next sentence, and the one he chooses is denial.

"I'm sure there's a perfectly innocent explanation." He said almost defensively.

"Do you have any objections to me following this up using backchannels?"

"There are no backchannels."

He'd needed to get out after that. Couldn't stand to be up in heaven with all of those angels who had smiled at him and patted him on the back pityingly for centuries, knowing all the while that Aziraphale had been getting chummy with someone else. Maybe more. He couldn't help but wondering if Aziraphale had held Crowley's hand the way he'd once held Gabriel's. If the demon had ever known the feeling of Aziraphale's thumb rubbing lovingly across the back of his hand. Ever run his fingers through the angel's downy soft curls while he'd dozed in his lap. Ever been pulled into a kiss on the doorstep of that bookshop Aziraphale so adored. He felt sick. Gabriel went for a jog, just to clear his head. To make it all go away for a moment and replace the pain in his heart with the burn in his muscles. Of course, the one time he doesn't want to see Aziraphale, he jogs right past him. Gabriel hopes that he can just keep going unnoticed, but he has no such luck, as the Principality immediately begins to jog right alongside him, begging him to slow down. He does, because as angry as he is, he still can't deny him. He's beginning to think that Uriel is right, and he really is the most vulnerable of them. Aziraphale blabbers on about stopping the stupid war, and all the while Gabriel could feel his blood pressure rising. The war was needed. It was foretold. It was unquestionable, and here Aziraphale was trying to convince him it needed to be stopped. Aziraphale, who had been deceitful. Aziraphale who had lied to him. Who would continue to lie to him. Aziraphale who he couldn't stop _feeling_ for no matter how hard he tries. He shuts down everything he suggests, treating the conversation like a wrestling match he had no intent to lose. Then, in a fresh burst of anger, he says something he _knows_ he'll end up regretting.

"Lose the gut?" He said it to be mean. He'd _meant_ it to be mean, and he felt it sting a little on the way out. As if to make it seem less mean-spirited- more like 'locker room' talk, he adds "C'mon! You're a lean, mean, fighting machine! What are ya?"

"I....I'm soft." Aziraphale had said so quietly and full of self doubt that it makes his heart hurt.

He hadn't wanted to stay in Heaven, and now all he wanted was to escape Earth. Escape that horrible, crushed expression on Aziraphale's face. Escape the lies. Escape his own, horrible, uncharacteristically vicious thoughts. He stops only to ask after Aziraphale's sword, before going back to Heaven and holing himself up in his office, which had had neither a door nor a lock on it until today. It was severely underused, and had such things been allowed in Heaven, it would have gathered quite a bit of dust. Gabriel had always been off somewhere, doing something, talking to someone. Else he'd be in Michael's office, seated on her desk going over miracles or just discussing their trips to Earth. Oftentimes they'd be joined by Uriel or Sandalphon, or on a rare occasion, both of them. There was a soft knock on his office door, and he looked up from his desk, hopeful that whoever was on the other side would grow tired of waiting on him to open the door and leave. He had no such luck.

"Gabriel? Are you in?" Michael's voice called tentatively from behind the door. With a sigh, he miracles it open.

"What?" He snapped.

"I followed up on Azi-"

"Please. Don't. Not right now."

She stepped into the room, closing the door behind her. Clearly he would not be left alone. Gabriel let his head sink back down onto the desk with a wooden thud. Within moments, there were long nails running through his hair, comforting him, soothing him. He turned his head so he could look at her.

"How long did you know?" He asked miserably.

"For millenia."

"Why didn't you say anything?"

"We didn't want to hurt you."

Gabriel scoffed bitterly, but said nothing.

"How are you feeling?" She asked gently

"I'm angry." Gabriel said with a shuddering sigh. "And I'm hurt. And I don't trust you anymore."

She bristled only slightly at his words, taking them in and processing them carefully. She's always been more mature than him. More reserved. More clever. Gabriel was never sure if she actually cared for him, or if she simply pitied him. This was doing nothing to clarify.

"I'm sorry that you feel that way."

"Yeah. It's not great."

"Well. It will all be over soon." She said with a tight little smile he assumed was supposed to be uplifting. It was not.

He'd never imagined how very wrong that statement would turn out to be. Never in his wildest dreams or worst nightmares had he seen this coming. Aziraphale, averting the war, violating the Great Plan, turning his back on Heaven, on _him_ , hand in hand with a demon. Gabriel couldn't handle it. Couldn't process it. He felt like he was being torn apart from the inside out and he couldn't even scream. His Principality had betrayed him and he couldn't cope with it. No. Not _his_ Principality. Not anymore. Maybe he never was. His colleagues had been kind enough not to mention his greying hair, or five o clock shadow, or tired gaze. When he'd gone to Earth to confront the traitors himself, he'd quite nearly lost it. He'd yelled. He had never yelled in his entire life. It felt good- like relief- but only for a moment. And then, he'd lost. _They'd_ lost. There would be no war, there would be no great triumph over heaven, there would be no 'eternity', and he would be the one who had to tell that to 10,000 angels. Michael and Sandalphon had held his hands underneath the podium while he delivered the bad news, silent pillars of support. It had been Uriel who had pulled him aside and reminded him of their little...problem. They couldn't just let Aziraphale carry on. Not after what he'd done. After all, by performing demonic temptations for centuries and averting the war, he'd branded himself a traitor to Heaven, and traitors couldn't be left on Earth to do as they pleased. After all, what kind of example did that set?

Angels didn't fall anymore. It had been decided, after the Great Plan had been made known, that felling angels only gave more ammunition to the other side. All renegade angels henceforth would be executed, and Aziraphale would be no different. His heart balked at the idea, but he was tired enough and angry enough that he could quash it. Bury it deep down and pretend as though he'd never felt it at all. In fact, it seemed that once he gave his anger a voice, it wouldn't be silenced. It screamed down the part of him that broke when he saw Aziraphale tied to that chair, and gave him the strength (or maybe it was spite) to stare him down and condemn him to death. The coldness in Aziraphale's gaze had only served to fuel that fire. Oh sure, he'd said all the stupid, dopey little things Aziraphale would have said, given all the usual nervous little smiles, but there was no _sincerity_ to it. It was like an extra slap to the face. He didn't even feel one ounce of remorse. Aziraphale had destroyed everything, and he was _still_ sitting here and lying to his face. Gabriel snapped like a twig under pressure.

"Shut your _stupid_ mouth and _die_ already."

If Michael had been there, she would've stopped him from saying something so cruel. Would have made an effort to calm him. But she had had her own business to attend to downstairs, and so his last words to the love of his life would be hate-fueled and malicious. Something he'd regret as long as he lived. Something that after the flame had died and his anger subsided would play over and over again in his mind no matter how hard he tried to shut it up. It had already begun to hit him when Aziraphale had stepped into the flame. For one brief moment, fear and grief grip his heart, and it feels like someone's just knocked the wind right out of him. Then....nothing happened. Aziraphale simply cracked his neck, cool as a cucumber, appearing perfectly relaxed in the grip of hellfire. It had frightened him. It had relieved him. It had condemned him.

They'd let him alone after that. It hadn't been too hard to convince the others, after what had happened at the execution. They had been far more frightened than Gabriel. After all, if _Hellfire_ couldn't harm Aziraphale, than he _certainly_ wasn't an _angel_. But he certainly wasn't a demon nor human, either. It didn't bear thinking about. Gabriel couldn't care less what he was. He loved him all the same. And that was the worst part. After all Aziraphale had put him through, after all the truly _vile_ things Gabriel had said to him, even knowing that Aziraphale would rather be holding someone else's hand, he couldn't make it _stop_. All he wanted anymore was to make it stop. To halt the memories of chaste touches in busy marketplaces, of soft feathers between his fingers, of sweet little smiles and white-blonde curls and one, gentle, brief kiss. Of course, these were pleasant compared to the memories of Aziraphale's wilted, broken expression after Gabriel had made such malicious comments about his waistline, or of the cold look behind his eyes, or of him standing, surrounded by infernal flame- a nightmare turned reality. Shut your stupid mouth and die already _Shut your stupid mouth and die already._ The words went round and round in his brain, driving the guilt into him more forcefully every time. Heaven carried on, Hell returned to business as usual, the Earth turned on its axis, and Gabriel stopped. His office door remained locked at all times with him cloistered securely inside it. Not even Michael was granted access anymore. He hadn't looked in a mirror, but he was certain his corporation must've been at its worst. He hadn't even changed his clothes since the execution, except for a pale blue silk scarf, which he staunchly refused to ever take off again. Gabriel would've been content to spend the rest of his miserable, eternal life sprawled out under his desk wallowing in anguish, but after 6 months, Uriel had had enough and miracled their way into his office. They'd demanded he take 'personal leave', as his attitude was a detriment to all of them. When he'd asked "How long?", the only answer he'd been given was "Until you've sorted yourself out."

He started out in New York City. Figured there might be enough room between them that way. That it might be easier to avoid. To forget. But there was no space to breathe in New York. The lights and sounds and sheer volume of humans was dizzying. He'd go to musicals and the lyrics would hit too close too home, leaving him sobbing quietly in his theatre seat. He'd tried to try food, at one point, and hardly made it through the doors when he was assaulted by the smell of crepe and the memory of an 1880 luncheon. Jogging through Central Park had been a nice change of pace, until someone with the same familiar shade of platinum blonde hair jogged past. After a week, he'd decided to try Paris, instead. He'd spent an entire day in Notre Dame Cathedral, looking for a trace of his once unwavering faith. Looking for a sign or a message in the stained glass. When that yielded nothing, he'd gone to the Louvre. He'd heard good things about the museum throughout the centuries, he'd just never had a chance to go. Gabriel had been having a lovely time, up until the religious iconography. The oil paintings of the mid 19th century had really stood out to him. The soft, plump angels with their wispy blonde curls were almost right. Almost, but not quite. On his fourth day in Paris, he'd finally given up. He was in London by noon, and after a great deal of stalling, he was standing outside a Soho bookshop by nightfall.

The sign is flipped to "Closed", but every light in the building is on. He's home, at least. Gabriel steels himself before miracling the door unlocked and walking in. Aziraphale was seated in an armchair, perusing a novel contentedly. When he looks up to see Gabriel standing there, hands folded neatly in front of him, politely waiting to be noticed, there's a flash of fear behind his eyes that sends a fresh pang of guilt through him.

"Gabriel! What an unexpected surprise! W-what uh. What are you doing here?"

"I'm sorry." He says immediately. Perhaps a little too stiffly.

"I beg your pardon?" Aziraphale cocks his head to the side, folding his eyeglasses away.

Gabriel sinks to his knees at Aziraphale's feet, hands folded in his lap. He's too afraid to touch him- he's almost always too afraid to touch him- but he needs to be vulnerable for this. It won't count, otherwise. He lifts his eyes to meet Aziraphale's, comforted by the fact that the fear he'd seen in them moments prior has been replaced with gentle confusion.

"I'm _sorry_ Aziraphale." He repeats, louder this time. "I'm sorry for all the awful things I've said to you and the execution and-" he cuts himself off. Gabriel can feel tears beginning to sting his eyes and it had gotten difficult to speak around the lump in his throat. "all of it. I'm sorry for all of it. You don't have to forgive me. I don't even forgive me, but-"

"Gabriel, this is silly. You don't have to-"

"I do!" Gabriel interrupts, desperation in his voice. "I do, because I _care_ about you, and I've _hurt_ you and I've let you _be_ hurt. I should've been protecting you..."

Tears spill over his cheeks, soaking into the material of his scarf, and Aziraphale looks at him so softly he thinks it might kill him. He reaches out to wipe the tears off of his face and Gabriel flinches. He doesn't deserve such tenderness. He knows he doesn't. But he'll take it anyway, because he _wants_ it and he's wanted it for so long he feels as though he might burst.

"Gabriel....what's this all about?" Aziraphale asks, his hands still cupping the Archangel's face.

"I love you." He confesses, his hands clasped around Aziraphale's wrists. He'd always expected it to be harder, but the words slide off of his tongue as easy as if he'd been saying them all this time.

"W-What?" Aziraphale asks breathlessly.

His eyes are wide with surprise, and his hands have gone slack on Gabriel's face. Gabriel smiles slightly, rubbing his thumb against the soft skin at the inside of Airaphale's wrist. It's not a true smile, but he doesn't know how else to respond. He's not good at emotions other than elation. Never has been.

"I- I love you. I always have, really."

"Ah. Yes." Aziraphale sighs grimly, taking his hands back to fold them neatly in his lap. "I was afraid that's what you'd said."

Aziraphale's entire demeanor has shifted from concerned to closed off, eyes cast down, lips drawn in a thin, tight line. Gabriel didn't know what to expect, but he'd been immediately filled with the sense that he's said something terribly wrong. He reaches a hand out, placing it cautiously on Aziraphale's knee. He _flinches_.

"Aziraphale? Are you alright?"

"Hm? Oh yes I'm _fine_. Never better. Tip Top." he says tightly. Gabriel has never understood sarcasm, but assumes this must be an example when Airaphale's voice cracks and he covers his wobbling lip with a hand. "Not a problem. It's tickety-boo."

"Azira-"

"It's just- Well frankly it's infuriating, really, that after all this time you should-" Aziraphale stops, biting his lip and looking over his shoulder. When he turns back, his eyes are red with tears. "-excuse me- That after all this time you choose _now_ to confess this. It is simply _cruel_."

"I don't understand."

And he doesn't. He'd been prepared for anger, or rejection, or both, but not... this. Not _tears_. Not grief. He doesn't understand it, nor does he know how to fix it. Gabriel rubs his thumb across Aziraphale's knee, trying to comfort him.

"I tried for so long to get your _attention_ , Gabriel! I gave you _miles_ and you never gave me so much as an _inch_ and now? Now that I've finally given up and moved on, you decide to tell me that you've loved me this whole time? It's not bloody _fair_!!" Aziraphale half-shouts, half-sobs.

"Never gave....What about Jerusalem?!" Gabriel says, desperately clinging to the legs of Aziraphale's pants. "What about the summer of 1880?! Was that not enough? I'm sorry if it wasn't enough. After that lunch I was... I was waiting. I thought you'd wanted me. I thought for sure you'd ask me again if only I'd kept on waiting for you."

"I _did_ want you! But you weren't ever _here_ , Gabriel! You spent so long up in heaven _waiting_ on me that I'm afraid you've just missed me." Aziraphale sniffs, pulling a handkerchief out of thin air to dab away his tears. "What fools we've been."

"It's Crowley, isn't it?" Gabriel asks, even though he already knows the answer.

"It could never have been anyone else." Aziraphale nods, unable to look him in the eyes.

"Never?"

"Perhaps not 'never'. But certainly not now."

Gabriel is surprised to find that the rejection does not hurt nearly as bad as anything before it. It stings, yes, but it's final. Resolute. Decided. Something that this thing between them had never been. It does not lessen his feelings for the Principality, but it has begun to make them easier to bear.

"Are you two happy?"

"Immensely so."

The way he says it is so earnest and loving that it almost hurts to hear. Gabriel is certain that Aziraphale would have never spoken of him in that tone. Still, he smiles up at him, returning his hands to his lap and straightening himself properly.

"Good."

He stands, attempting for a moment to straighten out the creases in his slacks before giving up on them completely. Gabriel turns to leave the way he came.

"Will you be all right?" Aziraphale calls out softly from behind him. When he turns back, he sees that the smaller angel has stood from his reading chair and is fiddling nervously with the well worn waistcoat that Gabriel had so adored on him in 1880.

"Aziraphale..." He starts. In 1800, he hadn't had the words, but now that it's all over, they finally come to him. "I have loved you since the beginning and will love you even after the end. I have loved you when you were heaven's most important ally and after you had become its enemy. I have loved you from far away, and when you were only a hairsbreadth from me. I will love you if I never see you again, or if I see you every Tuesday. I will love you if you decide tomorrow that you cannot bear to live without me, or if you decide that you never want to see me again. So really, it doesn't change anything for me- You, loving Crowley, that is. All that matters is it makes _you_ happy."

Gabriel thinks that that might have been the most perfect, eloquent, and intelligent thing he's ever said, and he's rather proud of it. Especially with the way it makes Aziraphale's eyes light up with an almost bittersweet longing. It's selfish of him, but he likes the way the Principality looks as though he might run after him.

"Yes. Right then." Aziraphale says curtly. The tremble in his lower lip has returned, and Gabriel pretends not to notice it.

"Good night, Aziraphale."

"Mind how you go."

Gabriel turned once more to leave, pausing at the door to remove his scarf, placing it ceremoniously on the front desk. He gives Aziraphale one last, soft smile and ducks out the door. Outside, it's begun to rain, and Gabriel stands in it a moment, letting himself enjoy the feeling of the cool water hitting his skin, soaking into his clothes. It's refreshing. Uplifting. With a quick glance around to make sure that he won't be seen, he spreads his wings and flies up to Heaven the old fashioned way, certain that he'll be welcomed back with a pat on the back from Sandalphon, a curt smile from Michael, and a brief word of encouragement from Uriel. For the first time in a long time, he was glad to be headed home.


	2. Chapter 2

And so, Aziraphale, who had up until that moment been quite sure of himself in all aspects of his life for the first time, was left standing on the verge of tears in the middle of his bookshop. He'd never known of Gabriel's feelings for him. Or at least, he'd never been certain of them. Gabriel had so rarely given him reason to suspect...of course, there had been the grooming, and the tender touches in bustling marketplaces, and one chaste, sweet kiss, but there were thousands of years of radio silence between. Years which let Aziraphale slowly lose hope. That was what made it hurt all the more, really. All the years of not knowing, of never being sure if Gabriel actually loved him or if he was simply the same affectionate dope he was with everyone else. It had been infuriating. So infuriating, in fact, that by 1911, Aziraphale had resolved to put out the torch he'd carried all those years. Sure, Gabriel was handsome and endearingly naive and he had an incurable tendency to pluck Aziraphale's heartstrings like a harp, but he wasn't _here_. On Earth. Crowley was here. Crowley was beautiful, and kind, and he was _here_. Not just on Earth, but within arms' reach, only a thought away, always here, always rescuing him. Falling in love with him had been as easy as flight, once he'd begun to let himself. He was still so very angry that after a century of moving on, Gabriel had come in like the blundering fool he was and lit that candle Aziraphale had so forcefully snuffed out with a few perfectly placed words. Aziraphale had picked the scarf up from the desk and thrown it across the room. How _dare_ he?! How dare he waltz in here with that pitiful look in his eyes and get down on his knees- the way Aziraphale had always hoped he someday might- when Aziraphale could no longer pull him in and tell him that he'd wanted the same thing?! It wasn't _fair_!

The tears were streaming down his face again before he could stop himself. Quite frankly, he didn't _want_ to stop himself. He hadn't been this upset in years, and he simply couldn't keep it in, even if his distress did have a peculiar effect on the weather. Perhaps he would not bottle his tears if they didn't cause rainstorms. Startled back to reality by a deafening crack of thunder, Aziraphale quickly calms himself to a point where he's no longer in danger of flooding Soho, and pours himself a glass of bourbon before drinking it straight from the bottle. Usually, he wasn't one for self medicating via substance abuse, but there was nothing about tonight that had been usual. He drank until he was properly sloshed and the storm had turned to a light drizzle. Aziraphale was tired, and he was miserable, and he was drunk, and he wanted to be held, but he couldn't possibly call Crowley. Not when he was feeling so much, and for someone else at that. He sinks into the ancient cushions of his loveseat, face smooshed against the crushed velvet. Out of the corner of his eye, he catches a flash of blue silk and his heart aches. He remembers when he first saw the scarf in that shop, knowing instantly he had to buy it for Gabriel. He'd snatched it right off the mannequin and wrapped it around his neck, watching with a grin as Gabriel's expression turned from confusion to delight. Despite himself, every time he'd see him in it, Aziraphale's heart had given a proud little stutter. 1880 had been a hell of a year. It had been a mistake. A delightful, wonderful, innocent mistake, but a mistake nonetheless. But Crowley had been asleep so long, and Gabriel had been...well, the same way he's always been. So naive. So darling. So eager. Aziraphale peeled himself from the loveseat and plucked the scarf up from its place at the base of his shelves, bringing it to his nose and sniffing the soft fabric. Gabriel had never grown out of frankincense, and the scarf was permeated with it. Frankincense, and clove, and just a hint of ozone- like how the Earth smells right before rain. It both soothes him and fills him with longing. Aziraphale lays back down on the loveseat and curls around the scarf, letting the scent of Gabriel lull him into a drunken sleep.

Aziraphale is neither accustomed to sleep, nor being hungover- a fact which he is brutally reminded of when his phone rings two days later, bringing him to consciousness with its shrill screech. Feeling groggy and as though he might be sick for the first time in his immortal life, he rolls off the couch and finds his way to the phone, only remembering that he is an angel and can magically vanish a hangover after he's picked up the phone and Crowley has already called out his name just a little too loudly. He holds the receiver just a little farther from his ear, wincing in pain as he finally willed away his headache. It left a dry and sour feeling in his mouth.

"Crowley, how are you dear?" he replies weakly, still shaking the last of it off.

"I'm fine, angel. You, however, sound terrible. What happened? Did someone buy a book?"

"Oh heavens no." Aziraphale chuckles. "It isn't as bad as all that. Just had myself a bit of a nap is all."

"A nap? I thought you didn't like sleep?"

"I am...certainly unaccustomed to it, yes."

"Well, if you're done with your little foray into dreamland, I was thinking we could go try out that new patisserie?"

"That sounds lovely dear, what time should I expect you?"

"Oh, I can be there in about five minutes. See ya soon."

Oh dear. That didn't give him very much time to straighten up at all. With a snap of his fingers, he vanishes the liquor bottles and neatly piles the books he'd knocked over in his stupor. He's just finished straightening his bowtie when the demon sauntered through the door, announcing himself by coming up behind Aziraphale and wrapping his arms around his waist. Aziraphale leaned back against his chest, letting his eyes slide closed with a soft smile. It's amazing just how comfortable they'd become with one another after centuries of being so scared to even touch one another. Making up for lost time, Aziraphale would say. And they truly had so much lost time to make up for.

"Hey angel." He murmured from his perch on Aziraphale's shoulder.

"Hullo dear."

"You ready to go?"

"Just barely. That was less than 5 minutes, _speed demon_ "

Crowley just shrugged, burying his face in the crook Aziraphale's neck, breathing him in. He let him go just a little reluctantly, grasping his hand before turning to leave with Aziraphale close behind him. It's then that he notices a pale blue silk scarf, miracled right back into place on the front desk. Aziraphale's heart leapt into his chest, suddenly gripped with anxiety as Crowley lifts the garment up between two fingers, inspecting it curiously. He should have been more careful. He should have hidden it away or gotten rid of it instead of hanging onto it like the sentimental old fool he is.

"One of your customers leave you a little parting gift?" Crowley teased lightly, dangling the scarf in front of Aziraphale's nose.

"Er. Yes, something of the sort." He bluffed, reaching for the material only to have it pulled away. Crowley smirked wider as the silk slips out of reach.

"It's rather nice, innit?" He said, wrapping it squarely around his shoulders. "Whatdya think, angel? It's a nice little pop of color, right?"

"Crowley _really_!" Aziraphale pouted. "You can't just take things that don't belong to you!"

"I'm not _taking_ it! It was abandoned! Poor little scarf, left to wander your horrible, musty bookshop without a neck to warm." Crowley laments dramatically, stretching himself across the front desk.

"The right thing to do is to put it back where you found it so that the owner may reclaim it." Aziraphale said curtly, hands folded in front of him.

"Oh, the 'right thing to do', then? You know I'm not supposed to do _that_ , angel." Crowley tutted. Decidedly, he wrapped the scarf around Aziraphale's shoulders. "You know what? I think it looks better on you. Fits in with the color scheme almost. How 'bout you wear it? Maybe we'll run into the poor sod who left it while we're out and about, hm?"

"I highly doubt it." Aziraphale muttered, but he made no effort to remove the scarf, instead following the swaggering demon out his shop door.

Aziraphale picked at his food. Pushed it around his plate as though he might one day load it onto the fork, but never does. He's simply got a lot on his mind at the moment and its ruining his appetite, which is another worry in and of itself. He was vaguely aware of the fact that Crowley was watching him from behind his dark glasses, scrutinizing his every movement. It's not helping him regain his appetite in the least.

"What's wrong, angel?" He asked finally.

"Whatever do you mean? There's nothing wrong, dear." Aziraphale lied.

"Really?" Crowley drawled, sitting back in his chair with his arms crossed over his chest.

"Really." Aziraphale repeated firmly, continuing to pick at a bit of cake on his plate.

"Awful strange weather we've been having." Crowley said almost innocently, staring him down from behind his dark glasses.

"Crowley..." Aziraphale said. It was supposed to sound like a warning, but it came out far too softly. "Don't-"

"Perfectly dry evening. Not a cloud in sight. And then suddenly WHOOSH!! Rains of biblical proportions."

"It was not _that_ much rain."

"You don't have to tell me what's wrong, but don't lie to me, angel." Crowley sighed. "You go missing for two days, run around making the sky fall with your crying, you haven't _touched_ your food... I've known you for six thousand years, Aziraphale. I can tell when you're doing less than your best."

"I'm sorry dear. I didn't mean to insinuate-"

"I know you didn't."

Aziraphale folded his napkin primly and placed it across his uneaten cake. He had been foolish to think he'd be able to just pretend nothing had happened. After all, everything always comes out in the end. Avoidance is only stalling the inevitable. He screws his eyes shut and the patisserie dissolves around them, morphing into the familiar mahogany bookshelves and antique furnishings of his bookshop. Now seated in an armchair across from him, Crowley looks just a little disoriented.

"Terribly sorry about that. This is simply not a conversation for a patisserie."

"Of course."

Aziraphale took a deep breath, struggling to find the right words to say. He never had the right words to say. You'd think with all the literature he'd consumed, all the vocabulary he'd carefully cataloged and curated throughout the centuries that words would come easy, but they never do. Instead of not having enough, he always has too many. Too much he wants to say and too many ways to put it, unable to find just the right combination. Somewhere, he's distantly aware of the fact that he's taking far too long to start this conversation, but Crowley made no attempts to push him. He's just sitting there, patient and loving as he's always been, willing to wait lifetimes if Aziraphale needed him to. It makes this so much harder to say.

"Gabriel....popped by yesterday- or well, two days ago, I suppose."

"I know."

"I-I beg your pardon?" Aziraphale balked

"You don't wear frankincense."

"Oh. That."

"What'd he have to say to you?"

"He-" Aziraphale finds his mouth has gone dry again. Somehow, recounting it is just as bad as experiencing it. He swallows around the growing lump in his throat. "He said he loves me."

"That's all?" Crowley cocked his head to the side, confused. "It's kind of a dick move, but I don't see why that's any reason for hysterics, angel.

Aziraphale stays quiet, eyes focused on anything but Crowley's sunglasses. It's not as though he's been unfaithful, really. In fact, rather the opposite. This shouldn't be hard to talk about, especially with someone he loves and trust. Unfortunately, this gives the demon enough time to come to his own conclusions. He tenses in his chair, sitting straighter than Aziraphale has ever seen him, and Aziraphale's heart sinks into his gut.

"I see." He said stiffly. "So that's that then?"

"Crowley- no." Aziraphale gasped, reaching forward with the intent of grasping Crowley's hand, but the demon jerks away from him. He feels his heart break just a little more.

"No, no I get it, Aziraphale. I'm not gonna stand in your way. It's been a fun few millenia but now you've got one of your own to consort with. Don't have to settle for a demon anymore."

"Oh Crowley- _really?!_ Must you be so dramatic?" Aziraphale groaned. "I'm not _leaving you_ for him, and I am certainly not _settling_ for you."

"Sure. That's why you're hanging onto his scarf and crying _fucking_ flash floods for him."

"Crowley _please_ -"

"You love him too, don't you? That's what all this is about. You love him and you're miserable because I'm holding you back?"

"You aren't holding me back, Crowley, I-"

"But you do love him then?"

"Yes." Aziraphale bites out. "I do. I love Gabriel. But that doesn't mean I'm going to throw away everything you and I have built here because he finally came around."

"'finally'...How long?" Crowley demands. "How long have you been _mooning_ over him?!"

"One could hardly call it 'mooning'-"

"How. Long."

"I gave up at the turn of the last century. But that hardly matters, Crowley. I _gave up_. I chose _you_! I _am_ choosing you." Aziraphale shifted a little in his seat. He wanted nothing more than to reach out and hold him. Reassure Crowley that he isn't going anywhere. But the last time he'd tried, he'd been thoroughly rejected, so he settles for wringing his hands in his lap. "As far as I'm concerned, it was merely a...missed connection."

"So this whole time then." Crowley sighed, burying his head in his hands in what to the untrained eye would appear to be frustration, but Aziraphale could recognize instantly as despair. He refuses to fight it any longer and rushes to hold him, wrapping his arms around Crowley's torso and practically climbing into the chair with him. Crowley doesn't move away this time. He buries his face against Aziraphale's chest, crushing his sunglasses into them both uncomfortably.

"I don't love you any less, darling." Aziraphale cooed, running his fingers through Crowley's hair and trying his best to be soothing. "Why, I couldn't love you any less if I tried. I'm not going anywhere."

They sat like that for what felt like ages. Aziraphale half in Crowley's lap, half on the fading oriental rug, rubbing calming circles against Crowley's back while the demon clutched him as though if he loosened his grip, he might lose him forever. And Aziraphale supposed that must be exactly how he felt. He knew that loving did not come easy to a demon. They were a skittish breed, demons, made fearful and hesitant by their collective abandonment by the One Being who was supposed to love them unconditionally. It made perfect sense for Crowley to react with fear and anger. Aziraphale only wished he could do a better job of reassuring him that his love was _not_ conditional and furthermore, not in limited supply. Sure he loved Gabriel. He always had. Probably always would. But he'd shouldered that burden for years. Operated under it just fine. Even fell in love again under that weight. All this experience had done was add an extra pound or two. He'd managed before and he'll continue to manage, because losing Crowley was simply not an option. He pressed a kiss to the top of the demon's head, trying to cement the idea that he's not leaving his side. Not ever.

"I want you to be happy." Crowley mutters, muffled by Aziraphale's many layers of clothing.

"I _am_ happy, love."

"No you're not." Crowley lifted his head so he can look Aziraphale in the eyes, glasses askew. "You're _coping_ , and don't try to tell me otherwise."

"...Perhaps I am, yes." Aziraphale admitted. "But in time it'll-"

"I don't want you to have to _cope_ , angel."

"Well, what would you have _me_ do about it?"

"Whatever you want. Whatever you need."

"Oh you dear thing..." Aziraphale cupped his face in his hands, kissing him on the forehead. "I shan't do a single thing that might hurt you, so you can just perish the thought."

"You can't hurt me, love." Crowley insisted. "I'm like teflon."

"You are cast iron at _most_ , and you're being ridiculous."

"Go catch your 'missed connection', angel. I'm not going anywhere. You couldn't get rid of me if you performed a bloody exorcism."

"I'd rather not even entertain the thought of you being exorcised." Aziraphale tutted, kissing him over his tattoo. He'd have kissed him all over, if he thought he'd get away with it at the moment. His resolve was wearing down steadily, but worry still held him in its grasp. "Are you sure about this?"

"As sure as I am about anything."

"That is _not_ reassuring, Crowley."

What _is_ reassuring, however, is the kiss the demon bestows upon him. It's sweet and loving and everything he needs right now. Aziraphale can feel himself begin to relax as he melted against him, fingers finding purchase in Crowley's auburn curls. Losing Crowley was not a viable option, but Aziraphale had never dared to dream that he might be allowed to have both. Even now, with Crowley urging him in that direction it seemed too lofty a fantasy. Even once Crowley had talked him into it, it had taken him weeks to talk himself into it. There were just so many ways it could go pear-shaped and he only had one go of it. And he so _desperately_ wanted to make this work. Wanted nothing more than what he couldn't dare to hope for. Wanted so much more than old memories and a silk scarf. He'd wrapped said scarf around his neck once more before he went back Upstairs, armed with a pre-rehearsed script and one last, reassuring kiss from Crowley.

In general, Aziraphale tended to avoid Heaven when he could. There was a time when it had felt like home-when he'd even _missed_ it- but that faded shortly after the humans left the garden. Since then, the rift between Heaven and himself had only grown, and the place he'd once called home had become so foreign to him that he'd hardly recognized it. Indeed, every facet of its sleek, cold design served to remind him how he no longer belonged here and maybe never did. He'd even had to ask directions to Gabriel's office from a poor Principality who looked about ready to wet themselves at the sight of him. It was just one more twist of the dagger. Gossip spread fast in Heaven, and Aziraphale's failed execution and subsequent absence had been no exception. He sighed, giving himself one last little mental pep talk before carefully rapping his knuckles against the almost-but-not-quite wood of the door.

"Come in!" the cry is muffled, yet chipper, and another pang of anxiety hits him.

This is a bad idea. He should just go home and forget the whole thing, and he almost turns to do so when the door is pulled open. Suddenly he's face to chest with Gabriel, surrounded by the familiar scent of his cologne, looking up into surprised violet eyes. Oh _heavens_ , he shouldn't have done this. But it's far too late to back out now, isn't it? Aziraphale swallows thickly, fidgeting with the hem of his waistcoat anxiously.

"Aziraphale? What are you doing here?"

Oh goodness. What _is_ he doing here? Why couldn't he remember a damned word of that script he'd written and rehearsed? Aziraphale flounders, opening and closing his mouth as he searched desperately for the right words. Or even words in general.

"Aziraphale? You doing okay?"

"Iloveyoutoo." He blurts out inelegantly, mentally slapping himself even as the words leave his lips.

Gabriel's eyes slide shut, a pained expression on his face as he lets out a sigh.

"Don't do this to me, Aziraphale." He says weakly.

Aziraphale blinks up at him, only a little confused. Certainly it was no eloquent confession, but had he really messed this whole thing up that badly? Desperate to amend the situation, he reaches for Gabriel's hands, clasping them tightly within his own. It isn't like when he's upset Crowley. Gabriel doesn't jerk his hands away, but instead lets them rest limply in Aziraphale's own. It's nearly as bad.

"Gabriel-"

"Don't. Please. We both know this won't happen, so please just. Don't make it hurt any worse than it already does."

"Oh _Gabriel_..." Aziraphale sighs. "That is far from my intention, trust me, I-"

" _Trust_ you?" Gabriel's tone is cold, and Aziraphale knows he's chosen the wrong words again. "Why should I _trust_ you? You lied to me about Crowley, you lied to me about your work on Earth, you led me on for thousands of years-"

"Yes, and I am very sorry about all of that- I truly am- but this is _different_! I-I talked it over with Crowley, and I've come to the conclusion that I simply do not _want_ to be apart from you."

"Lucky me." Gabriel scoffs, taking his hands back and crossing them over his chest. He leans against the doorway, bringing himself closer to Aziraphale's height. "What'd Crowley have to say about it?"

Aziraphale feels sick. Gabriel's never used sarcasm as long as they've known each other, and hearing him do so is harrowing. It's _wrong_. Did he do this to him? Was he responsible for this massive shift in Gabriel's demeanor? The thought fills him with dread. Aziraphale's hands return to his waistcoat, continuing to wear it away at the hem as he's done since he acquired the garment in 1800. He didn't mean to ruin everything. He really didn't. But what else could he have done? His hands had been tied. If he could only think of something- _anything_ \- to say to make this better.

"He uh... He's not opposed to us seeing one another. So long as you're not opposed to us...er...continuing to see one another. Heavens that sound horrible when _I_ say it."

"No, uh. It's not horrible." Gabriel says. With a slight tremor in his hand, he cups Aziraphale's face. The lesser angel leans into his touch, a bit of relief blossoming out from underneath it. "And I'm...I'm not opposed to it."

"You sound as though you're going to say 'but'."

"But I can't. You said it yourself, Aziraphale. I'm up _here_ and you're down _there_. You can't come ho- er, back to Heaven, and I can't very well run away to Earth."

"Why not?" Aziraphale is winning him over. He can tell. Can hear it in his voice and feel it in the stroke of his thumb against his face. He takes a gamble and leans in on tiptoe, dangerously close to his face. "There's no more war to prepare for. Run away with me."

"You.....and Crowley?"

"Er well...yes. Me and Crowley."

Gabriel pulls him into a crushing embrace, lifting his feet straight up off of the polished floor and causing his joints to creak with the weight of it. He couldn't even reciprocate the way he so desperately wanted, his arms pinned uselessly to his sides. He was absolutely overwhelmed by the smell of frankincense, and clove, and Gabriel. Aziraphale buries his face against Gabriel's shoulder, breathing him in, his hands coming to pat uselessly at his thighs.

"Okay." Gabriel sighs against him. "I love you."

"I love you too" He squeaks out. "But you _are_ crushing me."

"Oh!" Gabriel immediately puts him down, making a show of straightening his clothes. "Oh I'm sorry."

"It's quite alright, darling." Aziraphale smiles. It's dopey and lovesick, and it makes his blue green eyes light up brilliantly.

Gabriel looks down at him, brows furrowed in confusion.

"That's not my name."

"Oh! No! Of course not. It's a term of endearment. Something the humans use to indicate their affection for one another."

"Oh! Like 'kissing', right?!"

"Yes, I suppose in a way, it might be." Aziraphale chuckles, cupping Gabriel's face and pulling him in for one.

It's better than the first two, though Aziraphale can't tell if Gabriel's gotten better at kissing or if it's simply been 120 years too long. Gabriel's fingers find their way into his hair, and Aziraphale smiles against his lips, delighted by the sensation. While, technically imperfect, it was so wonderfully sweet and refreshing. Like a breath of fresh air after a week inside. Aziraphale had everything he'd ever wanted, both right here in his arms and safe at home on Earth. When he pulls away, he lets out a happy sigh.

"Nice scarf." Gabriel smiles.

"Oh, this old thing?" Aziraphale asks innocently, plucking the fabric from his shoulders. "It was left in my bookshop. I think it would suit you better, though. Cool tones bring out the violet in your eyes."

"I think that's what you said when you bought it for me."

"Ah yes." Aziraphale wraps the scarf around his neck- back where it belongs. "I do seem to recall that. I stand by it. You look ever so lovely in blue."

"You look lovely in anything."

"Flatterer. When should I expect you?"

"When do you want me?"

"Whenever you're ready. It's a big transition."

"Tomorrow?"

"Tomorrow would be lovely, darling."

Gabriel pulls him into another embrace, burying his nose in his soft platinum curls. It's less crushing than the last, and far more tender. Aziraphale could lose himself in those strong arms. Given time, he might even let himself. For now, he pats Gabriel softly on the back, signaling to let him go. It was all just a little...much at the moment.

"I'd love to stay and chat, but, well, er, fact of the matter is I have dinner arrangements."

"Crowley?" Gabriel asks, the light behind his eyes dimming.

"Yes. We're getting sushi."

"Right! Consumables. You like those." His smile only falters a little bit.

"Yes well. Food is nice, but the company is what makes it worthwhile. Perhaps you could join us some other time?"

"If you'd like me to?"

"Of course I would. I'll see you tomorrow then?"

"Yeah. Tomorrow."

Aziraphale gave Gabriel one last, prim little pat on the pectoral muscle before turning on his heel and heading back down to Earth, a neat little skip in his step. It might not've gone exactly to plan, but he was satisfied with the overall outcome. Though it still seemed...off, somehow. Too good to be true. As though to experience such delight was sacrilege in and of itself, and he would surely be smited for it. Still, Aziraphale was a worldly man, and he was content to enjoy the spoils while they lasted, however long that may be. Crowley and Gabriel. Gabriel _and_ Crowley. It was unbelievable. Inconceivable. Positively _ineffable_. Tonight, the sushi was especially flavorful, the wine rich, the whole world in glorious technicolor, like that film Crowley had taken him to see with that lovely Judy Garland girl. He felt a bit like singing himself, but chose not to on the account of not wanting to make a scene in the restaurant. Crowley held his hand under the table, thumb rubbing affectionately across it while he told him everything in an excited tone. He wouldn't have said anything had he not asked, not wanting to step on the demon's feelings, but the first thing out of the demon's mouth had been 'How'd it go upstairs, angel', and he simply couldn't resist. Crowley just smiles that loving smile of his the whole time, and Aziraphale thinks he might burst from the affection in it. This is not Heaven. Aziraphale had been to Heaven. Had fought for Heaven. Had very nearly died for Heaven, only to turn his back on its rule 6,000 years later. Aziraphale _knew_ Heaven and this? This was so much _better_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really shoulda made this a multi-work thing rather than a multichapter, but here we are.


	3. Chapter 3

Crowley had done what demons do best, and lied. It didn't feel nice- lying to Aziraphale- but it was miles and miles above seeing his angel in such a state of despair. So he'd lied. He'd told Aziraphale that he hadn't a single qualm with him going after Gabriel, simply because the thought of him crying over it any longer was more than he or the poor overwatered hanging fern on his patio could bear, but even so, hearing his angel talk so animatedly and so lovingly about someone else caused a twinge of pain in his heart. He'd waited 6,000 years for Aziraphale to come around, only to be asked to _share_ with the very Archangel who'd told Aziraphale to "Shut your stupid mouth and die already." Course, Aziraphale didn't _know_ that, as Crowley had elected not to share it, figuring that Aziraphale didn't deserve to hear something so cruel. Sometimes, when Aziraphale comes over smelling of frankincense and clove oil, the selfish, possessive, demonic part of him thinks about telling him all the nasty things Gabriel had said during the execution. Then he'd surely douse the spark of romance between the two and send Aziraphale running back to him. It's a tempting thought, but for the part where he'd have to break Aziraphale's heart to do it. That was simply out of the question. Satan, he really was a terrible demon. Couldn't even manage to be selfish when he really should. So he managed. He suffered through the smell of Gabriel's cologne in Aziraphale's hair, and through the Archangel's occasional appearance at dinners or in the park, and through inside jokes that he was on the outside of, and anecdotes that made him wonder if he and Aziraphale had ever really been close at all. It was a form of torture, but it was still better than seeing Aziraphale sad.

And indeed, his little angel had had more bounce in his step and more of a twinkle in his eyes than Crowley had ever seen before. He currently sat on the bench in an art gallery, watching Aziraphale's expressions as he took in the paintings. He had been so very excited when the museum had announced the Van Gogh exhibition. Aziraphale was always fond of the impressionists, and had a soft spot for Vincent ever since the two had bumped into one another on one of Aziraphale's frequent trips to France. He'd been so terribly distraught when he'd heard of Van Gogh's passing.It was still nothing compared to when that Wilde character had gone, but he'd been quite upset nonetheless. Crowley tracked him from behind his dark glasses, pointedly ignoring the other angel at his side. Whereas Aziraphale was enchanted, and Crowley was content to delight in his excitement, Gabriel seemed wholly disinterested. He sat on the opposite side of the bench, leaning heavily on the armrest, violet eyes glazed over with boredom, leg bouncing impatiently in a way that was gradually sending Crowley's blood pressure skyward. Gabriel apparently did not share Aziraphale's love of the impressionists, and Crowley was growing concerned that the Archangel might become desperate enough to try _talking_ to him. That would be one sure way to ruin this little date; having to listen to Gabriel try to rub his two brain cells together to form a coherent thought. That would be the worst possible outcome of this, really, because if Gabriel started talking, Crowley could no longer guarantee that he would be able to "play nice".

At least, he'd _thought_ that was the worst possible outcome. Gabriel straightened himself, uncrossing his legs and folding his hands in his lap primly, sitting up ramrod straight, and Crowley braced himself for conversation, which blissfully never came. However as the minutes ticked by, the Archangel began to droop, and it occurred to Crowley just a moment too late that perhaps he'd just been trying to keep himself awake. Rather like a falling timber, Gabriel collapsed onto his shoulder, dead asleep. Crowley stiffened immediately, unsure of what to do. A part of him desperately wanted to shake him awake and yell at him for daring to touch him, even unconsciously, but yelling was generally frowned upon in art museums, and the last thing he wanted to do was ruin this for Aziraphale by making a damn scene. Besides, if he woke him, Crowley once again was in danger of Gabriel trying to start a conversation with him. Reluctantly, Crowley relaxed, resigning himself to being a pillow for the time being. Thankfully, Gabriel seemed to be a much more graceful sleeper than Aziraphale had been the few times he'd dozed off on Crowley's shoulder over the millenia. He didn't drool, for starters. In fact, like this- face slack, vulnerable- he was almost...sweet. Certainly more tolerable than he was when awake. Feeling his arm begin to go numb from supporting a dead weight angel, Crowley stretches a bit and wraps it around Gabriel's shoulders. In his sleep, Gabriel _snuggles_ up to him, clumsily throwing an arm around his waist and burying his nose against Crowley's lapel. Alright, this was going too far. Crowley felt his face reddening despite himself, and rather suddenly he wanted nothing more than to be anywhere but right here. He debated miracling himself away, but he _was_ technically on a date, and it would be rude to just vanish. Besides, he wouldn't be here to witness Gabriel slamming onto the bench in his absence and that would be a shame in and of itself. Instead, he clears his throat, trying desperately to get Aziraphale's attention. Mercifully, his angel turns around, curious expression melting into the dopiest smile Crowley's ever seen on him as he took in the sight of the two of them cuddled up on the art gallery bench. Crowley scowled, feeling himself blush harder.

"I think it might be time to leave." Crowley whispered harshly, pointing to the angel on his shoulder.

"Are you quite sure, dear? It seems like you two are enjoying yourselves." Aziraphale giggled. Crowley glared.

"Get him off of me." He hissed. Aziraphale pouted at him just a bit, but obliged, shaking Gabriel gently.

After a hastily mumbled apology and an awkward trip through the museum gift shop, Crowley had decided to skip out on their dinner plans. He just couldn't handle any more _Gabriel_ after that debacle. Crowley honestly had no idea what it was that Aziraphale saw in the guy anyway. He was loud, and obnoxious, and naive, and dumber than a bag of rocks. His only redeeming qualities, in Crowley's personal opinion, were in his looks. For all his irritating nature, Gabriel _was_ handsome. Perhaps that was it. But then again, Aziraphale had never been shallow. Surely there must be _something_ he was missing in this equation. He sat in his office chair and thought about it over a dirty martini, trying to figure out what it was Gabriel had that he lacked. It was a waste of vodka and brainpower. Perhaps he was being just a touch dramatic over this whole arrangement anyway. After all, it really wasn't very often that all 3 of them went out. Aziraphale tended to keep them separated because of the barely concealed contempt they seemed to have for one another. Usually he didn't let his distaste at Gabriel's presence to ruin the evening, but then again, Gabriel didn't usually fall asleep on him. He had just decided on an early bedtime when his phone rang. Lunch in the park. To make up for blowing off dinner. Yes, Gabriel would be joining them. Positively fucking splendid. Crowley made himself another martini instead.

"Lunch" had consisted of finger sandwiches, sponge cake, and Aziraphale doing all of the talking. Aziraphale usually did most of the talking when it was all 3 of them. He always seemed to have the most to say, though whether that was a testament to his conversation skills or to the tension between himself and the Archangel, he couldn't say. After one awkward silence too many, Aziraphale excused himself under the guise of purchasing ice cream, leaving the two of them alone on the park bench. Crowley was content to sit and brood until Aziraphale had returned, but evidently Gabriel felt otherwise.

"Isn't he just precious?" He mused aloud, violet eyes fixed on the other angel, gazing lovingly from across the park

"Who, Aziraphale?" Crowley asked stupidly. "Yeah. 'Course, he's an angel. I suppose that comes with the territory."

"You think so?" Gabriel asked, head tilted. It's only then that Crowley realizes he's accidentally extended the compliment to him. Why did he bother to speak at all?

"Dunno. Can't say I know much about being an angel anymore." He shrugged, feeling more than a little embarrassed.

"No, uh. I guess you can't." Gabriel said. He paused long enough that Crowley almost believed he was finished speaking. "Why don't you like me?"

Crowley is taken aback. He'd never expected to hear that question from him. To tell the truth, Crowley had fully expected them to continue in charged silence for the rest of their lives. After all, Crowley wasn't even good at communicating with those he _did_ like. He flounders for a moment, trying to come up with a decent answer to Gabriel's question. Instead, he settles on;

"Why do you care?"

"Well, because Aziraphale likes you." Gabriel says as though it were obvious and Crowley was being deliberately obtuse.

"So what, my opinion matters all of a sudden?"

Gabriel takes a shuddering breath- as though what he's about to say is quite difficult for him- and Crowley braces for impact. He had the distinct feeling that Gabriel was about to be _vulnerable_ with him, which was a concept he found deeply unsettling.

"I-I'm also...not used to people _not_ liking me. It feels bad."

Crowley throws his head back and laughs. That was all? He was just bruising his poor ego?

"Yeah? Well get used to it _Gabe_. Not everyone in the world is gonna like you." Crowley hissed.

"Why not?" Gabriel asked so innocently that Crowley had to keep himself from laughing again.

"Well, first off, it's statistically impossible to be liked by everyone, and secondly because you're just so.... _you_ "

"Me? What's wrong with me?"

"You're too loud, you're so obnoxiously upbeat it comes off as fake, you don't think before you speak, and you're so dreadfully, _painfully_ naive."

"Oh." Gabriel said dejectedly "Crowley, I don't know if I can fix any of that."

"You can't. It's just how you are. But that's not why I don't like you. Not really."

"Why don-"

"Because Aziraphale likes you _so much_ that I'm not enough for him anymore."

Oh no. Oh dear. Oh _fuck_. When had this changed to him being vulnerable with Gabriel instead of the other way around? Crowley couldn't quite recall, but now he was quite regretting saying anything at all. He should've just ignored Gabriel to begin with, like he always does. Beside him, the Archangel nods understandingly, eyes downcast.

"Yeah...Yeah I feel like that too." He admits.

"What, you? Nah. You can't feel inadequate. You're the most egotistical bastard I've met. At least, from Upstairs."

"I have never once felt 'adequate'."

The confession tilts Crowley's world on its axis. He'd never once considered that Gabriel had been...compensating. With just 6 words, his entire perspective on Gabriel had changed, and he was thoroughly shaken. He would've pressed for more information, dug his sharp claws into him and picked him apart like a tinkerer faced with a new machine, but Aziraphale had returned with their desserts, so instead he occupied himself with the cherry popsicle he'd been handed. Crowley didn't say much for the rest of the outing. Wasn't really a participant in it. More like an intent observer. Except instead of Aziraphale, he's focused intently on Gabriel, watching every smile, every gesture, paying close attention to the way his eyes lit up or dimmed depending on the direction the conversation went. How much had he missed? What else didn't he know? Distantly, he's aware of Aziraphale taking his hand, and he squeezed it just a bit, acknowledging him without stopping his train of thought. He's quite thankful for his dark glasses at this moment, knowing that he'd surely be caught staring without them.

"Crowley, dear, you're dripping." Aziraphale pointed out quietly. Sure enough, Crowley's popscicle was dribbling cherry-flavored mess all over his jeans. He miracles the whole thing away with a scowl.

"...Perhaps we ought to head home. It is getting a bit late." Aziraphale adds, finally taking notice of the tension coming off of the demon. He rubs his thumb across Crowley's knuckles lovingly.

"Sure." Crowley shrugged, getting to his feet and dusting off his jeans just a bit. He turns to Gabriel, cocking his head. "You want a ride, too?"

"Me?"

"No, the park bench. _Of course I'm fucking talking to you._ " Crowley snapped sarcastically, ignoring the glare Aziraphale flashed him.

"Sure, if you're offering."

The car ride is silent, save for the sound of Freddie Mercury crooning through the Bentley's speakers. He still drives too fast, acutely aware of Aziraphale's nails digging into the doorframe, but not quite as fast as he might've liked. When he screeches to a stop in front of Aziraphale's bookshop, he thinks for a moment that Gabriel might faint. Crowley quietly wonders if this is his first time in a car. It was certainly his first time in the Bentley, at least. Crowley was not fond of passengers, with the exception of Aziraphale, and as a result was not prone to offering rides to people who were not Aziraphale. The aforementioned angel hesitated, looking nervously between Crowley and Gabriel in the rearview mirror.

"Are you quite certain about this?" He asked quietly. "I know you two don't exactly get alo-"

"'S fine angel. I'm not gonna discorporate your boy toy." Crowley teased, though perhaps it was a bit ill-timed, as Aziraphale shot him a menacing glare for it.

"He is not my _'boy toy'_!" Aziraphale hissed at him. 

"Hey guys. What are we talking about?" Gabriel interrupted, irritation in his voice palpable as he leaned his head on Aziraphale's seat.

"Oh, nothing important really." Aziraphale said dismissively. "I suppose I should be going. Can't very well sit in the car all night, can I?"

With a kiss to each of their cheeks, he climbs out of the Bentley, stopping on the steps of his shop to wave them off, more than just a little worry on his face. Crowley ignores it while Gabriel tumbles into the seat next to him dramatically, scuffing his shoe against the dashboard in the process. Crowley winces just a bit before quietly miracling away the mark on his poor car. Damn clumsy angel.

"You could have just gotten out." Crowley groans.

"Yeah, I could have." Gabriel says passively.

"Right. Where am I taking you?" He changes the subject, pulling out of his parking space.

"Oh, I dunno."

"What do you _mean_ you _don't know_?" Crowley balks, already speeding down the road. "Where are you staying?"

"Oh I usually just go back Upstairs after doing Earth things."

"Then why did you ask for a ride?!"

"I didn't ask, you offered." Gabriel corrects. "And I took you up on the offer because you've never been so nice to me before."

"I wasn't _nice_. I'm a demon. I'm not _nice_."

"No you're not."

The honesty in the statement pierces something in him. He's a demon. He's supposed to feel good about being...not nice. But it doesn't change the fact that maybe deep down, he doesn't want to be not nice, and it doesn't change the fact that he's used to having this argument with Aziraphale, who always doubles down on his compliments. Crowley's always the one claiming to be a vile creature of hell, but he's never had someone agree with him. It hurts. It's not exactly incorrect, either. Crowley shifts in his seat, keeping his eyes on the road as he floors it, headed nowhere in particular.

"You're not exactly a peach yourself, Mr. Archangel." He spits defensively.

"I know that. Are you sure we should be going this fast?"

"We can go as fast as I damn well please, it's my car."

Eventually, they screech to a stop in his parking spot in front of the apartment complex he resided in, when he wasn't lurking around the bookshop. Crowley's not exactly certain why he's brought Gabriel here. Maybe because he had no where else to take him. Maybe because his interest had been piqued and he wanted so badly to satisfy his curiosities. Maybe both. Maybe neither. But there they were, sitting side by side in an idling car outside his apartment building, sitting on a precipice, in grave danger of being pushed right over the point of no return. Gabriel fidgets with the tassles of that damn blue scarf, unable or unwilling to look directly at Crowley, which suits the demon just fine. He's beginning to fear those bright purple eyes. Or perhaps, just what he might see behind them if he really took the time to look.

"Where are we?" Gabriel asks, still making no moves to get out of the vehicle.

"My Apartment."

"Why are we-"

"Look, do you want to come up or not? 'Cause you can just vanish yourself right now if you-"

"No, it's fine."

In a few minutes time, Gabriel is seated at an odd angle on his couch with his knees tucked to his chest while Crowley is draped across the adjacent armchair like a discarded rag doll, a tall glass of red wine in each of their hands, because this is not a situation one can enter without at least a little alcohol. The silence between them hangs heavy with the promise of a conversation that neither one of them can seem to start. The longer it goes on, the more Crowley regrets this decision. It was still _Gabriel_ , after all. Not like he'd magically morphed into someone tolerable. Crowley runs a finger round the rim of his wine glass trying to think of something- anything, really- to say. Gabriel beats him to it.

"What is this, Crowley?" He says tiredly, fixing his gaze to the lounging demon.

"Dunno what you're talking about. Just being hospitable s'all."

Gabriel rolls his eyes dramatically, setting his wine glass down on the table and his feet back onto the floor. Crowley pointedly refuses to look him in the eyes, focusing instead on the fact that for all his fashion fanaticism, Gabriel's socks do not match. He's said something wrong again, and he knows it, but he just doesn't know what else to say. Doesn't know if he's even capable of having an honest conversation without deflecting.

"Look, Aziraphale may find that coy bullshit endearing, but I don't. If you're gonna say something, say it, otherwise I'm going home."

"'m sorry." Crowley blurts out, suddenly feeling very small. "I'm sorry I've been an arsehole, and I'm sorry I'm making this harder on all of us, and I'm sorry I can't communicate for shit and I'm just sorry, _okay_?! I just-" his voice cracks. Shit. Here? Now? Like _this_?! In front of _him_?! "I just wanted him to be happy, I never thought- never thought it would be this _hard_."

Gabriel is staring at him with a startled sort of expression, as though he hadn't been prepared for the very vulnerability he'd asked of him. Crowley curled in on himself, tucking his head between his knees in a way that would be quite uncomfortable, were he human. He didn't wanna look at him. Didn't want to be seen. He hadn't meant for any of this to go so far. His glasses dig into his tear-dampened cheeks as he pulled himself into a tighter ball. Suddenly, there's a big, warm hand on his knee, thumb rubbing soothing circles against the denim of his jeans. He goes stone still. Lets Gabriel pry the wine glass from his hand and set it on the end table. Lets him press his face against his calf.

"It's okay. I know how you feel. It's not fair, but it's better than nothing." Gabriel sighs, and Crowley's not sure if he's talking to him or just musing aloud.

Whatever the answer was, it didn't matter to him. He nodded in agreement, uncurling just enough to work a hand free and place it over the one on his knee. Crowley doesn't know what's happening anymore, but it's becoming more and more obvious that he is no longer in control of the situation, and that's terrifying to him. He thinks about turning into a snake and slithering away. Thinks about miracling to the bookshop or the park or the arcade down the street or anywhere but here. Thinks about miracling Gabriel somewhere remote where he doesn't have to think about him anymore. He doesn't do any of these things. Instead, he lets Gabriel thread their fingers together on his knee, unable to ignore the way the Archangel's hand seemed to dwarf his own. Crowley doesn't want to look up. He's too scared of seeing those violet eyes looking up at him. Too scared of what that look might tell him. He's terrified, but he needs to know. Slowly, he picks his head up.

Gabriel is looking at their joined hands with something between concern and admiration, running his thumbs across Crowley's knuckles as though he were something quite precious indeed. His eyes meet Crowley's glasses, and he frowns, reaching a hand out and pulling them off gingerly, folding them and placing them with the wine glasses on the end table. Crowley blinked slowly, his eyes adjusting to the sudden change in light. For the first time since before he'd fallen, their eyes meet. He's been laid bare before the Archangel, and while every one of his instincts tells him that this is very much a cause for alarm, he can't help but feel...calm. Must be some kind of angel voodoo. Gabriel cups his face, wiping a stray tear away, his hand big enough that Crowley's jaw fit perfectly in its palm. Before he can think better of it, Crowley turns his head and presses a feather-light kiss to Gabriel's palm, listening to the sweet sound of the soft gasp he takes in.

"Crowley-"

"Don't." He whispers. "Whatever you're going to say, just don't."

So he doesn't. Gabriel takes his hand back, crawls forward until they're face to face, and takes the demon's face into his hands. Kisses his cheekbones, his tattoo, his forehead, the tip of his nose, the corner of his mouth, anywhere but his lips. Crowley's eyes slide shut, so busy basking in the attention that he didn't realize Gabriel was waiting for him to close the distance. To seal the deal. He doesn't. He _can't_. Crowley doesn't make first moves. He's always afraid of asking too much. Afraid he's too careless and he might break something. Instead, he unfurls himself in the chair, forcing just a bit of distance between them. Gabriel is still on his knees at his feet and Crowley forces himself not to think to hard about that. Now wasn't the time. There was enough confusion in this room without adding to it with hormones.

"Will they be looking for you... Upstairs?" he asks, reaching for his sunglasses.

"Probably not. Why?"

"You wanna stay?"

"Yes, I'd like that very much."

Crowley drags Gabriel to his feet, drags him to the bedroom, snaps his fingers and replaces Gabriel's wrinkled suit with a pair of flannel pajamas and his own clothes with the satin ensemble he'd bought just in case Aziraphale ever _did_ take him up on the offer to stay over. He spends the night with his back pressed to the Archangel's front, strong arms wrapped tightly around his waist, watching movies and trying to ignore the near constant stream of commentary the archangel whispered into his ear, across his shoulders, against the nape of his neck. It's nice. Nicer than he could've expected. As Crowley finally begins to drift off to sleep, he thinks he might finally be starting to see what Aziraphale saw in him.

When he wakes the next morning, his bed is empty and his phone is ringing. He was almost willing to dismiss the whole thing as some weird dream, were it not for the fact that the smell of frankincense permeated his sheets. He almost ignores the phone to roll over and bury his face in the adjacent pillow, but he sees the caller ID and knows he won't get away with that.

"Hey 'Ziraphale" He slurs sleepily into the phone.

"Crowley!" The angel sounds just about as giddy to hear his voice as he always does, and Crowley can't help but smile at that. "What on _Earth_ happened last night?"

"'S a long story, Angel. How bout I tell you over breakfast?"

"It's after noon!"

"Right. Lunch then?"

"Alright. You'd better not leave anything out!"


End file.
